


Bucky and the Magic Stuffing Potion

by Molly_Ren



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Belly Kink, Feedism, Other, Stuffing, feederism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 00:51:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4459037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molly_Ren/pseuds/Molly_Ren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Bucky needs most is some R and R... Asguard style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bucky and the Magic Stuffing Potion

_I really should be angry_ , Bucky thinks. Here he was in Asguard, serving as a glorified errand boy in order to pick up some magical... er... _alien_ tech from Thor. Everyone else in the Avengers–including his beautiful, perpetually concerned boyfriend–was going on stealth missions without him. This would be the perfect excuse to send him into a major depressive spiral about how he was just a fuckup with PTSD, good for nothing but make-work…

But then there’s the food.

He isn’t being even slightly sarcastic. Bucky is sitting on a bench at a long table in one of the most sumptuous buildings in all of Asguard, being toasted and made much of by Thor and what Bucky can only think of as his posse (their names are Volstagg, Fandral, Hogun and Sif). And there’s food as far as the eye can see, food that goes so far beyond the 21st Century’s idea of “potion control” that it’s in “Is that a marzipan castle taller than I am?” territory. All of it is laid out on gold and silver platters, garnished with gold leaf and peacock’s tails like a Medieval fantasy. There are whole pheasants by everyone’s plate as if they were merely a side dish, and Bucky is pretty sure the tusked creature laying in a pool of its own juices in front of him is an entire roasted boar.

He’s so hungry and awed that, when Thor passes around a cup for everyone to drink from, saying that it would put “courage in the heart of any trencherman”, Bucky doesn’t even ask questions before talking a swig. It has the pleasant burn of something 80-proof. (Not like he thinks Thor would ever try to poison him. Or that the serum left him vulnerable to much anymore, really.)

So it takes him a very, very long time to figure out what’s happening to his body.

Mostly, it’s because Bucky is having the time of his life. Thor and his friends don’t treat him like he’s a bomb that’s about to go off, which has been one of the worst things about coming back to the world. Instead, Volstagg thumps him on the back with a hearty friendliness that might send him face-first into the table if not for the serum, and Sif and Fandral keep flirting with him. They hang on his every word when he ventures an opinion about guerrilla fighting in regards to Jotuns… and howl with laughter when he tells stories about what Captain America was like as a kid (Hogun has to brush away actual tears.) Which is why he isn’t paying particular attention to how much he’s eating and drinking until, hours later, his swollen stomach suddenly gurgles.

Oh, shit. Was that his fifth plate, or his sixth? (Or the tenth?) He cringes, waiting to get stabbed by the mother of all stomach cramps, but instead his belly just gives another low rumble and his sides round out as they relax. Bucky waits for several more minutes, but the wrenching sickness that should follow drinking as many cups of mead as he has never comes.

Sif is entertaining the others with a story about a birth feast that sounds like it went on for weeks, so no one’s watching as he surreptitiously checks his middle with one hand. It feels very taut and round… and then he feels another, deeper gurgle as the pressure inside starts to build. Here it comes, he thinks, tensing, but the twinge just resolves itself in a massive belch that leaves his belly feeling slightly roomier than it did before. Sif laughs at him and he blushes.

I should stop, he thinks, and makes an effort not to look at the still-tantalizing towers of fruit and pastry around him. But ten minutes later he realizes he’s still idly taking sips of mead without realizing it … and then twenty minutes after that he finds himself eagerly biting into a fruit pastry Fandral handed him and feeling like he could eat twenty more. What the hell…? Not even a super solider should be able to gorge like this!

“What was in that drink?” he blurts without thinking–and, since there’s a lull in the storytelling, Thor is able to easily explain how the shared cup at the beginning of the feast was actually an Asguardian potion designed to facilitate week-long drinking contests. When you’ve made feasting a sport as well as an art form, Thor explains, it’s only natural to find ways to solve the problem of limited capacity.

Thor doesn’t realize the effect this revelation will have on someone who just recently ended fifty years of being brainwashed and fed through a tube until Bucky says in a small voice, “You mean… I really can try everything?"

The discovery that Bucky had never feasted like a true Asguardian sent Volstagg, Fandral, Hogun and Sif on a quest to make sure that he really did try every single dish offered at least once. Thor looked on with amusement as Bucky demolished plate after plate, all of his inhibitions gone now that he knew that his growing belly was cradled in a nest of soothing magic.The more he ate, the harder the potion had to work and the warmer his belly grew. Soon, his stomach felt as warm and buoyed as if he were standing in a hot tub.

As bodily enhancements went, Bucky thought, having a stomach that was able to painlessly expand far beyond its normal limits was one of the most wonderful he’d ever experienced. Bucky loved eating, but he was always aware that eventually he’d reach a point when even the most gourmet food would become revolting. If he insisted on pushing his limits, he’d usually either be violently ill or dragged down into a food coma. This time, he found that not only could he eat as much as he liked, but that he could stay awake to enjoy it.

Bucky found himself able to devour entire plates of pastry without once feeling sick on sugar… put away what had to be half a roast boar without his stomach dragging him down to the floor…or ride the happy buzz of alcohol in his bloodstream without fear of crashing. Being able to fully enjoy every mouthful of dozens and dozens of dishes was like reliving every steak dinner and Thanksgiving and Christmas and birthday he’d ever had, laid out end to end… only none of these memories could hold a candle to Sif occasionally hand-feeding him a bite of something particularly wonderful that he simply could not miss.

But at last even Bucky had had enough. (He’d even tried a tiny dish of fruits which Volstagg laughingly assured him was actually a garnish.) Thor insisted he have one more dose of the potion to tide him over while he digested (when even Thor is impressed at how much you ate, you know you outdid yourself) and he somehow manages to waddle out of the mead hall and back to his room.

Like the hall, his room is huge and dripping with gold. It also has a bed big enough for five people, inches-deep in furs. After removing what bits of his clothing he can reach (bending over has become temporarily impossible), he sinks into it with a huge sigh, cradling his massively distended belly.

As the magic-controlled lights dim, Bucky shuts his eyes and wallows in a feeling of bone-deep contentment, his stomach perfectly sated. Normally, at this stage he would be sick and moaning with every move he made, feeling like he was about to explode. Instead, pulses of warmth radiate out from his navel and hips and lower back, soothing him towards slumber. Not that it’s quiet: his stomach is making quite a lot of extraordinarily loud grumbling and even squeaky noises as it labors to digest mountains of food and gallons of wine… but he doesn’t feel even a twinge of discomfort.

Bucky contemplates the curve of his belly (so pronounced he can’t even see the tops of his boots) and belches comfortably. _I can’t believe how much I ate_ , he thinks dozily. Then: _I should tell **Steve** how much I ate…_ But before he can complete the thought, the influence of the potion, the wine, and his burstingly full belly push him down into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this story, you might also want to read [my erotica](https://www.etsy.com/shop/MollyRen), which is full of cute stuffed boys making out!


End file.
